Next time you see an old person, and I mean any old person no matter how sweet or frail or kindly they might look, run for your life! They are bloody hazardous. And if they are wearing a matching tracksuit set, then they are downright dangerous.
You see they’ve reached that golden age where their physical and sometimes even mental capacities have deteriorated to such a degree that they can do as they please. There must be something about this ancient, doddery look that stirs in us nostalgia; or is it hope for some lost notion of family and community? In that sweet, wrinkly old face all the lost innocence of the ages exists, and suddenly our tough street sense evaporates and we actually want to sing “Kumbaya” and go to Carols by Candlelight.
I mean people we need to get a grip! If anyone else reversed directly into my car without bothering to turn their head and check behind them, I’d be ready to kill. But sweet old Cecil is granted complete immunity, especially when he takes half an hour to tell me all about his crook neck, along with the rest of his life story. If any of my mates decided they needed a toilet stop every half hour on the way to the coast, I’d make them wait, but lovely little shrunken Josephine with her saggy, soft skin can walk at 0.000001km per hour to the rest stop from the car and I will smile and sigh “isn’t she wonderful”.
The benefit I suppose is that one day it will be our turn, and then we can hide behind those very cute wrinkly bits and get away with murder.
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